


Stacking the Odds

by glovered



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Bets & Wagers, M/M, djinn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-17
Updated: 2021-01-17
Packaged: 2021-03-14 21:35:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,078
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28802154
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/glovered/pseuds/glovered
Summary: Dean wakes up with no memory of the previous night, motel room trashed and no sign of Sam. Did Sam ditch him for hooking up with a local hottie, or was he kidnapped? The dark woods hold many secrets and Dean really doesn't want to have to go in there to find out.
Relationships: Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester
Comments: 10
Kudos: 50





	Stacking the Odds

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kirathehyrulian](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kirathehyrulian/gifts).



> Thank you, oddishly, for the beta and being my forever co-mod!

There's light coming in from the window. Bright light. Dean squints against it and rolls over onto something hard. Wood. Broken under him and splintering. The leg of a chair, looks like. The rest of it by the bed.

It's very bright inside and it's not helping the hangover. Usually one of them thinks to pull the curtains, Sam waking first and yanking them closed in a huff before re-faceplanting into his pillow.

The curtains are laying in shreds on the close motel carpet, which explains the window, a cold winter light filtering through, the sound of traffic too loud. 

There was a fight, maybe, which would explain the room. Destroyed, bits of plaster rained onto the floor too, some sort of rubble. 

"Some night," Dean mutters, wiping at his cheek, head pounding.

His hand comes away wet, but it's just drool and cold sweat. And strangely enough, a few shiny dots of glitter.

He formulates what must have happened. He was knocked out. There's no sign of anyone else though, so maybe not. Maybe he just passed out and a freak earthquake (in the heart of the Midwest) decimated the room. He's hoping for the latter. A drunken stupor. That could be it. Passed out here on the floor. His phone as his pillow.

He squints. Maybe that's all. He sits up with effort.

"Sam?"

At eleven last night Sam was hustling at the other end of the bar, bent over the pool table with an innocent smile pulling out that dimple while Dean looked anywhere but. Into his half-drunk beer, at his phone. He recalls chatting up the waitress.

"Sam?"

There's no answer. He gets to his knees, then to his feet, bits of plaster digging into his hand. Damn it feels like he's gone three rounds with a bear.

Out the window there's snow icing the motel hedges, and on the sidewalk it's been scraped to the gutters and out of the way of passing cars and pedestrians. He rounds on the bathroom.

"Dude, you using up all the hot water again?"

No sound of the shower. The bathroom door is ajar and swings open when Dean knocks. 

The bathroom is empty. There's no blood anywhere, fresh or dried, but there is a suspicious squeeze tube that, when Dean picks it up to examine it, advertises itself as the most eco-friendly of lubes. It is open and half blurted out onto the counter for reasons Dean can't fathom. Unless…

He looks back to the beds. Neither look like they've been slept in, more like fifty kids on a sugar high used them as trampolines, the sheets a mess. And a second sweep of the room shows that Sam's shoes are gone.

Dean clicks Sam's name in recent calls and listens to the phone ring forever. 

_You've reached Sam's phone, leave a message_ , comes at great length, then the beep. So boring as to be suspicious.

"Sam?" he tries again, hanging up and tugging the yellow shower curtain aside, then going and looking under both beds, just in case.

A memory floats to the surface then, something from last night. Sam waving him off, at the bar. Telling Dean to have fun. Rolling his eyes and squaring his shoulders in annoyance, Dean subtly salivating over the sight of him in that tight t-shirt that showed off his arms, downing another shot of the good stuff to try to slake that forever thirst. Dean hadn't been able to tear his eyes away. 

It was all coming together. Dean is a master detective. 

"Eureka," he says, finding a napkin in the overturned and otherwise empty trash can by the door. A bar napkin, with the name of last night's watering hole embossed on it. 

So. Dean had clearly brought a woman from the bar back to the motel, ditching Sam, and Sam hasn't come back to the room, probably still pissed. He's probably at an all-night diner, drinking endless americanos and glowering into the glow of his laptop.

"I am Sherlock Holmes," Dean says, and jerks on a shirt from his duffel. After giving himself a smell and finding himself acceptable, he chases a couple pills with what's left of a Gatorade to soothe his aching head.

Next stop, coffee.

  
  


+

  
  


Dean slept with a waitress in a town south of Chicago. It was a pretty banging way to celebrate saving an entire diner staff from a haunted deep-fryer, and you couldn't blame a guy for gloating.

"Please," said Sam. "For the love of god, just let me sleep."

He hadn't been so lucky, on sleep-in-the-car duty while Dean was busy in the motel room. From the dark circles under his eyes, it hadn't been very restful. He'd found them a new case immediately, and they'd crossed three state lines today, moving through frozen barren farmland, past Minneapolis into more forested northern climes. 

Dean adjusted his rearview mirror. "What can I say, Sammy. Chicks dig heroes." He threw a grin over at Sam, who had his eyes closed and was slumped low in the seat. "That's three-nothing, this month."

"We're not keeping track."

"But if we _were_ keeping track," said Dean. "I'd be winning." He was warming up to this theme. "That awesome chick who had all the shotguns," he enumerated. "Trixie in Chattanooga who kicked your ass at pool. And as you may recall, I slept with Francine at the diner just last night. Anyway let me know if you need any help in the ladies department."

"I think I got that covered, thanks," Sam said. He had his eyes dedicatedly shut, determined to avoid the big brotherly advice and support.

"Oh ho!" When Sam didn't elaborate Dean said, "Wait, what? Really? Are we not three-nothing? You holding out on me Sam? Come on, give me the deets." 

"You're disgusting," Sam said. Then, after some hesitation, "We're three-two."

If Dean didn't have hunter reflexes this surprise may have sent him skidding off the highway but he just carefully maintained speed. "Two in the past month? You're bullshitting me." When had Sam even left his sight, let alone had time for what had surely been elaborately romantic hookups.

Sam shrugged, sinking down further into the passenger seat with his head pillowed on Dean's bundled jacket like he could give a crap.

"That one girl at Starbucks who gave you the extra whip cream?" Dean guessed. "Or wait, the gas station clerk lady when I had to get a spare tire and was gone like half an hour? She was smokin'. You can't tell me you didn't, you know…"

Sam stayed silent even though it was practically a law that whomsoever rode shotgun had the solemn duty of entertaining the driver.

"…or that foxy single mom in the haunted place over off I-10? Or the lady at the ammo shop when I left you to go get us takeout and all you had to do was restock but you somehow forgot half our order. You remember the one. Legs up to here." On second thought, "Or up here I guess." He gestured to his shoulders.

Sam finally sighed and sat up a bit, pulling out his phone, apparently giving up on sleep. When Dean looked over he caught the edge of a smile tugging Sam's mouth.

"Ew, really Sam? Ammo lady was old enough to be our grandma. You stud."

"I can neither confirm nor deny," Sam said, cutting off the pertinent follow up questions.

Dean nodded. "A true gentleman. Well. That's still three to two. So..."

"For the last time, it's not a competition — take the next exit, Forest Hill Road — I'm not keeping score."

"The universe is keeping score. And I'm winning," Dean pointed out. He took the offramp, sitting up a bit straighter and relishing the stretch in his back. "You're just jealous because I'm ahead. When I win the competition, you're taking me to Sioux City. Birthplace of—"

"Yes, birthplace of the Sloppy Joe, you've been talking about it for three days—"

"Because I only thought to look it up three days ago." Dean was salivating already. It was in the bag.

"And—" Sam said over him, "Even if it was a competition, month's not over yet. So."

"So? So what?"

"So we'll see."

"Ok, cocky," Dean glanced over. "We _will_ see." 

"I'm just saying," said Sam, finally glancing over from his phone finally, giving Dean an eyebrow, "it's not over till it's over."

Sam never could resist a bet. He didn't even seem riled up. Slightly cocky. Much more fun to defeat that way. 

"Also who picks a sloppy joe as a prize? That's just sad."

"The _original_ sloppy joe," Dean corrected. "It's a plate of American history. But I mean, two in a month is good for you. You must be feeling pretty good about yourself. You think chicks dig the hair?"

"I know chicks dig the hair." Sam's self-satisfied smirk kicked up a notch. "Sputnik crash site, here we come," he mimicked.

"Dude no way! That's the opposite direction!"

"Better hope you don't lose, then."

"I won't."

"Sure," said Sam, like he had a line of potentials just waiting in this middle of nowhere town for him to say when. Dean felt hot at the tone. Sam flicked him in the knee. "Watch the road."

"I always watch the road," said Dean, flicking his eyes back to the quaint hallmark-style street they pulled onto. "Maybe this town will be kind to you Sammy. We'll see."

  
  


+

  
  


It's just as bright outside. Obviously. Sunglasses don't help much and there's a new dusting of snow over main street. A quaint little town at the edge of a forested state park that stretches dark and deep. 

The post-Christmas world is deceptively quaint and raises Dean's spirits considerably until he parks the car and gets out and promptly slips on some black ice and has to catch onto a lamppost to avoid landing flat on his ass. But he _will_ make it to the bar and, by extension, to coffee. By god he will make it.

The same bartender is on shift. Her high ponytail swishes back and forth as she pours mimosas for a group of ladies down the bar, and she smiles big when her eyes land on Dean.

"Hey," he says, sounding steadier than he feels, and manages to slide onto a stool at the bar without wincing at the ache in his muscles or the pounding of his head.

"Hey yourself." She gives him a once over and then pours out a mug of coffee for him without asking.

He accepts it gratefully, hands warming pleasantly, and waits for any indication that she had snuck out of his motel room early that morning after an epic night of drunk sex. But her eyes aren't red-rimmed like his own, and her lipstick is perfect like she was feeling great and had all the time in the world to make it to work.

He takes a healthy sip of coffee before asking, "Busy morning?"

"Not really. The locals, pretty much. And my new favorite regular of course." She gives him a wink.

This moves the needle back toward "hookup." 

"So last night," Dean hedges.

She wipes the counter, smiling, "Yeah, you were going pretty hard."

"I'm definitely feeling it today."

She smiles. "Be right back."

He watches her leave. Rarely has he blacked out to this extent. He gives the bar stool a small turn, gripping the edge of the tacky bar top. It feels familiar, his memory coming back briefly of flirting with her as she tipped a bottle to his empty tumbler of whiskey.

She returns, still too perky for this time and situation.

"So," Dean says, changing gears. "Do you know what happened to the guy who was with me last night? Tall as a tree only shaggier?"

"Yeah, I remember him."

"You remember everyone who comes in here?"

She smiles again. "Only the cute ones. And he was a real cutie."

Dean laughs. "I'll tell him you said so."

Her eyes travel to how he's white-knuckling the coffee mug. "He left after you, with one of the locals. But it was after you had already taken off."

"Ah. And you know where they went?"

"Sorry, I don't. You need anything else? Hair of the dog?"

"I'll take a grilled cheese and a side of onion rings," says Dean, feeling pathetic and, against all logic, ditched. Even though he was the one to ditch Sam first.

When the bartender brings his sandwich, greasy and comforting, she passes down a ginger ale as well, "on the house."

He checks his phone and finds no texts or missed calls. He's feeling more and more like shit and her look of sympathy lets him know he probably looks worse. He raises the glass in toast; he'll take the sympathy.

  
  


+

  
  


The case was a simple one — just your run-of-the-mill monster-lures-civilians-into-the-deep-dark-woods. The bodies were found days later, looking like they'd been drained of life with just a few minor cuts near their ankles and wrists. Sam and Dean agreed that it seemed open and shut. A silver bullet would probably do it.

So after checking into a motor lodge, they immediately set to calling up witnesses and scheduling interviews to take place at a local watering hole. They could buy pints for townies in exchange for rumors and, hopefully, firsthand accounts of the strange occurrence.

"So," said Dean, following up their earlier conversation. "What's your plan? Like, how you plan to beat me when there's just two days left of the month."

Sam looked untroubled by this as he ate some of Dean's fries right off his plate. "I'm working on it."

Dean glanced around the bar. "The bartender?" She was super cute, with long blonde hair and a killer smile.

"Nope," Sam said, and popped another fry into his mouth.

Dean squinted at him but Sam didn't crack.

"Just worry about yourself, Dean."

"I already have it in the bag."

"Sure," Sam said.

They'd only been in town a couple hours and Sam hadn't left his sight. How could he already have a girl on the go?

Before he could follow this line of questioning until he solved it, their first witness showed up and they had to table their extracurriculars to pull out their FBI badges and hear more about the strange force luring people into the woods.

Sam was in an unusually good mood, knee knocking against Dean's occasionally as Dean made nice first with neighborhood gossip Mrs. Redford who lived in the new housing development at the edge of the state park, and who had seen the woman next door walking into the woods a day before she was announced missing.

Next they spoke with Mr. Jones, an elderly gentleman whose house was situated right at the forests' edge and who claimed to have been drawn into the forest against his will.

"But you're still alive," Sam pointed out. "While the rest of the victims haven't been so lucky." 

"Yup," the man said. "I managed to break myself out of the trance. But it was a powerful yearning, I didn't have control of my body."

"And what did this yearning look like?"

"A crow."

"A crow?" Sam glanced at Dean.

"Yes, a crow." Mr. Jones nodded. "I know it's odd but this crow was leading me into the woods. I felt compelled to follow."

"And then what?"

"Then I dropped my gun at some point and it went off, nearly blew my head off."

"And why were you carrying a gun?" Dean asked.

"It's my freedom as an American. Damn saved my life, too."

"Apparently. Well, thank you Mr. Jones. You call us if you remember anything else."

When Mr. Jones had left, Dean shoved his fries over to Sam, because they might as well give up on the charade that Sam wasn't going to eat them all regardless. 

Sam dipped a fry in mustard and sat back in the seat, chewing thoughtfully. "You know, crows have been shown to be extremely intelligent. They remember people for years and actually hold grudges."

"Are you suggesting Mr. Jones made enemies with a bird?"

"I'm just saying," said Sam, but he stepped on Dean's foot in a weirdly sweet way, "That it wouldn't be abnormal to sense some intelligence. He probably just caught sight of the bird and saw it looking at him, and believed it was leading him somewhere."

"Hm." Dean wasn't sold.

The next couple witnesses corroborated stories of seeing friends or family members wandering into the woods, and one mentioned hearing roaring at night that sounded like no bear nor other earthly beast.

"So, five missing person's reports," Sam read off his notepad once they'd all gone. "Separate and nearly identical accounts of people being lured into the woods, most mentioning animals of some sort." Sam shoved his notebook toward Dean, so Dean could see what he had scribbled. He had written "Not a bear" and then drawn a circle around a goofy sketch of a bird like he was finalizing their answer.

"Crows don't roar," Dean felt compelled to point out.

"Twenty bucks says the crow's not a crow," said Sam.

"You trying to start another bet? With that losing streak?"

Sam rolled his eyes. "For the last time, bet's not over until the end of the month."

"Which would be...." Dean made a show of checking the date on his watch. "Two days, ten hours, and some odd minutes. I don't see you getting laid any time soon."

Sam smirked annoyingly again, looking Dean over slowly.

"What? You got your eye on someone? Mr. Jones give you the signal?"

"Ew."

"I always knew you liked ‘em older."

"Shut up. So what do you think explains the roaring?"

Dean shrugged. "All kinds of animals in a forest."

Sam snapped his fingers, looking excited. Which was cute. Too cute. "Or maybe," he said. "Maybe it's all the same creature. Something transforming into animals?" He did some clicking around on his phone and then slid it over, which had a Search the Web news page up. "It looks like a recent state legislation passed that shrunk the size of the state park, which explains the new housing communities encroaching on the forest. Maybe something is fighting for territory?"

"You're thinking more deforestation leads to pissed off monsters?"

"It would make sense that nature is fighting back."

Dean shrugged. "Maybe."

"What's maybe about it? My theory makes sense, admit it."

"Maybe," Dean repeated.

"Why do you always do this?"

"Because." Dean said simply, sipping his pint of tall and frosty.

Because Dean liked Sam's earnest expression as he tried to convince Dean. Because he relished that sweet spot between the facts and arriving at the often ridiculous truth of the matter. 

Sam grabbed Dean's beer and finished it. 

"Hey! That was like half full!"

Sam didn't look apologetic at all as he followed this up by eating the last fry.

"Dude, you owe me another beer at least."

Sam rolled his eyes. "Are you for real? You're paying with a stolen card."

"Yeah, one I had to work for. You know how annoying it is to fill out applications and shit? You owe me hard cash."

"And where am I getting that?"

"Hustle some pool or something."

"Admit you think it's something protecting the forest. Like a wood nymph or something."

"Fine, fine, it sounds plausible. Truth is always wilder than fiction anyway." He turned away to flag the bartender for a refill. Instead, he found himself face to shiny gold face with a badge and hip holster. 

"Wha—?"

Dean craned his neck back to look up. And up. Until he locked eyes with a seriously hot guy who was looking right back down at him.

"Howdy."

"H-howdy," Dean stammered, and immediately felt his ears heat up.

When this guy — park ranger, Dean saw from the uniform — smiled down at Dean his eyes were the color of wet bark during a midnight rainstorm.

Jesus Christ. Dean wasn't often shocked into teenage girl-ness when confronted with an attractive face or a hot bod. He sat across motel tables from Sam most days after all. 

But Ranger Rick or whoever was crazy attractive, with toned arms and strong-looking hands. He could probably break Dean in half if he wanted to. For some reason he looked like he'd been carved right out of a tree, skin smooth and touchable revealed by the rolled up shirt sleeves of his forestry uniform. 

The man extended a hand. "Ranger Rowan." 

When Dean took the ranger's warm, calloused hand in his. He knew he was growing pink under his freckles. 

"Grab a second of your time?"

"Uh," Dean responded, and only pulled it together when Sam cleared his throat pointedly. "Yeah, of course." 

Rowan took a seat at their table.

"So," said Dean, when Sam, the bastard, didn't help him out at all. "What can we do you for?" _Dammit_. The words were out before Dean realized.

The ranger's smile grew wider. "Well, I heard the FBI was poking around, asking questions about the bodies found at the state park. And as I work for the park service I figured we could connect."

"Word travels fast," Sam said suspiciously but Dean kicked him under the table. They'd been planning on talking to local authorities in the morning, so this was perfect. With an added bonus.

"It's nice to meet a fellow public servant." Dean wedged his badge out of his jeans pocket and flashed it quickly. "I'm Special Agent Daniels, and my ill-tempered partner here is Agent Jameson."

Ranger Rowan held out a hand to Sam, who only stared at it. Dean raised an eyebrow at Sam, who had gone from strangely good-natured to full-on bitch face in a manner of seconds. Sam tepidly shook the ranger's hand and then went back ripping a napkin to shreds on the sticky tabletop.

Dean noticed with some smugness that the ranger sent only a cursory glance Sam's way before turning back toward Dean.

"So," said Dean. "What's the ranger job like? Bears and the bees, all that?"

The ranger nodded, putting a hand over his heart. "Keeper of the forest here. Sworn to protect."

"We've read the official report but is there anything else you can tell us about the deaths?"

"Well if you've read the report you'll know the deaths have been deemed animal attacks."

Dean shrugged.

"So, you don't buy it?"

Dean wasn't sure how much he should divulge about their interest. "The reports said thin lacerations on their body. I don't know of any animal that does that."

"You'd be surprised," the guy said. His phone started ringing and he flipped it open before standing. "I better head out. Duty calls."

Dean glanced to Sam, who was frowning at nothing, and was suddenly struck with a childish urge to rub it in. He took out a business card swearing him to the Kansas City field office and slid it across the table, the FBI seal embossed like he'd gotten a fresh stack from HR just that week.

"Don't hesitate to give me a call," said Dean. "If you need anything."

"Nice to meet you," said the ranger. "Both."

"Pleasure's all mine." And Dean, to his own horror, winked. Sam had a coughing fit behind his beer.

Rowan tipped his hat. "Well, I better get back to the station. Oh and agents— Steer clear of the woods. We got it covered."

Dean didn't promise anything, just watched Rowan's ass as he walked out the bar doors.

Silence hung like a storm cloud over their table, thick, somewhat ominous. Dean ordered and accepted that next beer before a word passed between him and Sam.

"Dean?" Sam finally said after the extended silence that stretched taught across the table in a way that really got under Dean's skin, though he tried not to show it.

"Hm?" He licked froth from his lip.

"What do you think you're doing?"

Sam didn't outright say _were you flirting with a guy and also just...what?_ but it was clear from his incredulous tone. Dean didn't have to explain himself. He didn't owe anyone shit. And also, he was at a loss himself.

"Just doing my job and making nice with the highly suspicious ranger." Yeah, that sounded good. He leaned into it. "I mean, did you hear him? _Don't go into the woods_. Pshaw. Like hell. That's basically waving a flag in front of a bull, asking him to come and get you."

Sam gave Dean a disappointed look, something Dean couldn't put his finger on. Dean just tugged at his collar, averted his eyes. 

Condensation streaked down the glass under his fingertips and he wiped his hand on his jeans. "Anyway, we got ourselves a case, no question about it."

"Yep." 

It wasn't fair that Sam was going to be a dick for some unknown reason and expect Dean to just deal with it.

"Anything to add?" he snapped to cover up the heat.

Sam just said, "Nope," popping the ‘p.'

Dean told himself not to take the bait.

"Fine," he said, smiling across the table in something that was closer to a show of teeth. "Let's go."

Sneaking one last look at Sam's downturned mouth, Dean stood. Sooner he could get them to that forest, the sooner they could kill the thing and leave. Maybe then Sam could buy him a victory beer to make it up to him.

+

  
  


Dean finishes his breakfast, and is sipping his ginger ale, halfway to feeling like a saved man. Or at least a person who can pass as a hungover agent of the federal government.

"You doing better?" asks the bartender.

"You know I honestly can't say? It's almost like I drank shitty tequila all night followed by an unforgettable one-night stand." He looks meaningfully at her, and hopes the question is clear. She looks like his type. "I mean, but that would be ridiculous right?"

She smiles at him, slow. But it's not like they had sex. It's kind of wistful, instead. Like the hookup could have happened but never did.

"I don't know," she says. "You two looked pretty cozy to me. But no tequila was involved. He was more of a whiskey man."

"Ah," Dean says, considerably thrown. He squints at her, "When you say ‘he'…?" Could she mean Sam? It wouldn't be the first time they'd been mistaken for a couple.

He does remember tramping into the forest, cool sunlight warming his cheeks. They'd found the creature pretty quick and dispatched it easily. Almost too easily.

Sam looked down at his bloody machete, dripping red onto the virginal snow. "Well that was—"

"Anticlimactic? I'll say."

He'd pulled a small flask of lighter fluid from his pocket and squirted it on the creature's body, some half-deer, only with fangs. A wild thing with glowing eyes. Meanwhile Sam fished in his pocket for one of the many matchbooks they grabbed from motel desks the country over. 

"No jokes about stopping forest fires," Sam warned, before dropping the blazing matches on the body.

That done, Dean had cajoled Sam into the bar for that beer.

"I'm buying, remember?" Sam said, passing him a drink. 

"I'm proud of you for killing Bambi. I know you like fuzzy little animals," Dean said.

Sam was seated on a barstool, and looked comically large and sexy as he looked up at Dean through his eyelashes, biting a lip. "I can think of one way you can thank me."

Dean wasn't sure other brothers ribbed each other with porn lines. It felt like dangerous territory. Even so, Dean stepped a bit closer which brought him close to Sam's knees, Sam with his head propped on his hand, elbow on the bar. "Oh really? What's that?"

But Sam wasn't listening anymore, he was looking past Dean to the doorway, face hardening. He stood.

"Where the hell are you going?"

"Looks like you've got company, and like you said, I need to go work for that money," Sam said, a little bitchy.

And with that, Sam left him to go hustle pool.

"You and the Ranger Rowan looked mighty close." Dean blinks out of his memory to take in what the bartender is saying.

The pieces are all falling into place. A swimmy memory floats to the surface of his mind like a leaf on a lake. Dark hair. A hundred-watt smile, a comfortable warmth as Dean leaned in close, laughing low. The guy slapping money down for another drink and gesturing for it to be sent Dean's way.

"Thanks, I owe you one," Dean's own voice says, the memory filtering the words like they'd been underwater instead of sitting mighty close at a dive bar.

"I'd like to think of myself as a protector of the forest," Rowan said.

Dean holds up the beer, froth spilling over the edge. "I'll toast to that."

He noticed the guy watching his mouth as he sipped. Their eyes locked, a sure thing.

The clinking sound of pool balls colliding brings Dean back to the present. He runs a hand over his chin, rough with stubble. "Damn," he mutters. "I really was drunk last night."

"You all right there?" the bartender looks concerned, and Dean can't even appreciate the ample cleavage when she leans in to refill his ginger ale, because he has to do some serious cleanup after last night. It's starting to look like Sam might have a good reason to be pissed at him.

Dean shakes his head. "Yeah, I'm fine." He stands, tosses a twenty on the bar but turns back. "If you see him again — the sasquatch I mean — can you tell his ass to call me?"

"Well, about that…" She looks hesitant. "I don't want to get in the middle of anything but…"

"But?"

"Well, he left with your partner. Ranger Rowan did."

Dean's brain nearly implodes.

"Come again?"

"Sorry to break the news. And I'm not sure where they went."

Despite everything, Dean is impressed. Sam really does have game.

"He seemed pretty sad when you left, though he didn't say much." The bartender looks at him.

"When I left?"

"Well, yeah, when you left with the ranger first."

Dean is too hungover to figure out this sequence of events. For now he just has to find Sam.

"Break a lot of hearts?" she asks.

Dean downs the rest of his coffee before he leaves. "Yeah, he does."

  
  


+

  
  


Outside the day has taken on a greyer cast. The New Year's shopping seems more sinister now, as folks shove past each other with their plastic bags of now-discounted merchandise near to bursting. Black ice is everywhere, hiding in plain sight, and a crow perched on the stop sign at the corner caws as Dean passes, causing Dean to near jump out of his boots. 

"Jesus," he mutters, chuckling sheepishly. He's off his game, unsteady without his other half. He shields his eyes. 

The crow seems to be looking down at him with an intelligence Dean doesn't like to see. It speaks of malice, a cold, calculated plotting.

Another memory hits.

The feeling of his boots crunching in the snow, his nearly-numb fingers fumbling the key into the impala trunk.

Last night. It was last night. He has a ghostly memory of opening the trunk to reveal the rack of weapons to a man he was with. He could remember him, just out of eyesight, not Sam. Someone else. He's betting on the ranger.

The likelihood of Dean showing off his weapons, even while drunk, seems doubtful. He's starting to get a bad feeling about this.

In the memory, more like a dream, Rowan — because it was definitely Rowan — whistled beside him, low, at the sight. "That's some arsenal." Dean wanted to show him the flamethrower, but he felt sluggish and uncoordinated with whiskey and winter.

"I know my way around a gun," he said suggestively, shutting the trunk heavily before turning to lean back against it. He grinned as Rowan took his queue and stepped in closer.

"I'll bet," he said, tone conversational still. "What kind of game you hunt?"

Dean smirked. "Every sonofabitch that crosses my path."

"Better stay out of my forest, boy." Rowan laughed but it seemed mirthless. "Or you might not like what you find. The forest has a way of getting its due."

Dean raised his hands, saying, "I got a permit, don't arrest me officer." His breath was cold puffs between them.

He recalls maybe an edge of ice to Rowan's look before he shoved Dean against his own car and laid one on him. A kiss, that is, not his fist. Although it did hit Dean like a sucker punch in the gut. 

And that's the last Dean recalled before waking up drooling on the motel carpet the next morning, head aching, breath rank, room completely destroyed.

"Some night," Dean mutters now, his mind reeling. He is now maybe seventy-percent sure Rowan had gone back to the motel with him. He wonders if they'd trashed the room during or whether Rowan had trashed it after. And if so, what had he been looking for?

The knowledge that they'd had sex didn't freak Dean out. That's the thing about memories, they're safely in the past. You already know how it turns out so there's at least a small grain of certainty, unlike now, Dean checking his phone again and finding no calls from Sam.

"Dammit." The bad feeling grows.

From the stop sign the crow caws again. 

Dean shields his eyes, looking to the bird. "Well? You gonna show me the way or what?"

The crow cocks its head, little eyes boring through his skull. To Dean's total lack of surprise, it caws again before taking flight, and sails gracefully over the snow like a now-silent shade. It circles back once, twice, looking down at Dean before flying off for good.

Dean smiles grimly and follows.

  
  


+

  
  


Dean will find Sam; he always does. It's just a question of when and whether he's put his faith in the wrong bird.

But something tells him this crow is, in fact, leading him in the correct direction. It's confirmed when it leads him to the edge of the forest, just where the new development pushes up against the dense trees. 

Dean looks like a crazy person or avid bird watcher or both as he shields his eyes against the sun reflected from the snow, and yells to the crow, "Where you going now, huh?"

The crow perches on a branch and caws twice at him until Dean sighs and starts down the path into the park. "Alright, alright. Lead the way."

It does. He heads in, nothing for it, and hikes a good half hour into the deep thick of it. There are a couple other hikers out for a wintery excursion but not many, and he keeps his gun in the waistband of his jeans until eventually the path dries up and other people with it.

He's left slowly making his way through the snow, growing more concerned by the minute. It's mid-afternoon, and he doesn't want to get stuck out here. The sun has dropped too low for Dean's liking. The evenings come early this time of year. Stupidest thing you could do, go out in the forest as the sun starts to set, and in winter no less. 

"Sam!" he shouts when he's in deep. The snow dampens the sound so it might as well have been a whisper. Last night's snow has slanted up against the trees, burying the roots and any path there may have once been if Sam had come this way.

It gets darker the longer he walks, no surprise there. After this, Dean swears to himself, after this he's going to invest in an array of bungees and attach Sam to him by the belt loops and it's going to be beaches for at least a year. His feet are damp and freaking freezing already and there is absolutely no sign of his brother.

Then, the worst happens. The crow, which has been hopping along at a sentient-seeming pace looking back at him every few branches, flaps away and quickly disappears into the branches.

Dean trudges to a stop, barely able to feel his face, his fingers so cold he probably couldn't use the gun if the need came for it.

"Oh come on!" 

But the bird is nowhere to be seen.

Jesus. Dean takes a seat on a fallen log, the sound of the town isn't audible from the middle of the snowy forest and he might as well be the only man on earth, Sam somewhere just beyond his reach.

Or instead Sam may be back in town, kidnapped or even back at the motel, which would make the bird just a hope with wings and Dean another crazy who saw signs where there were none.

But he can't think too closely about that possibility. It will destroy his resolve and give way to dangerous panic.

Instead, he does what he can.

"Sam!" he shouts, walking in the direction the crow seemed to have been leading. "Sam, where are you?"

He continues shouting uselessly as he takes out his flashlight to check it works. The light in the sky grows that much dimmer as the flashlight flickers on and off, illuminating little.

  
  


+

  
  


He's been yelling at intervals for half an hour more when he hears it like a puff of air — something human — in the inky distance.

"Sam?" His voice comes out on an icy croak. He sways near another trunk, gripping his gun.

He hears it again, this time the voice unmistakable over the silence.

Clearing his throat, he tries to answer louder. "Sam!" It doesn't work, so it's good that he soon stumbles upon a cabin.

At first he thinks he's dreaming. Dean is near dead on his feet and still hungover, not at his best when he sees this mirage. The sight of civilization, such as it is, invigorates him to the point of deliriousness and he laughs out loud and jogs slowly through snow to the cabin porch.

He shoots out the lock and busts down the door without even trying the handle.

Sam is on the floor inside. The cabin is mostly bare, just broken furniture, but it's warmer inside, away from the elements. Dean was getting worried Sam would be a popsicle by the time he found him but he looks whole and well, if covered in plants.

"Sam." He falls to his knees next to him. There are vines wrapped around his ankles and wrists, the kind with thorns. Dean drops his gun and pulls out his knife to start hacking, carefully.

"Dean?" It's audible around the gag in Sam's mouth.

"Jesus." This wasn't just some mythical beast, he was bound, gagged, and left to die here.

"I'm so happy to see you," Sam slurs, before passing out.

"Shit, shit." Dean finishes slicing through the ankle vines in under a minute, and then the wrists, more gently. So focused on Sam's pale face, eyes still clenched shut and sweat glistening on his forehead like he's caught in a fever dream, he almost doesn't hear the noise behind him. As it is, he barely rolls out of the way, hunter's instincts, to avoid any potential attack.

From where he's rolled onto his back, he sees Rowan, standing tall and no longer quite human above him, light limning the edges of his body.

"You're no ranger," Dean says, hand going slowly to his gun.

Rowan smiles his beautiful smile down at him. "And you're no FBI agent. We have something in common."

Dean whips out his gun and takes a shot. But it goes wide as Rowan grabs his arm with preternatural strength and jerks.

"Fuck!"

Rowan dissipates into mist, only to reform at the far side of the room beside Sam, who is still crumpled on the floor, barely moving. Dean struggles to his knees, clutching his arm. It's only dislocated but it hurts like a mother.

"Don't hurt him. Please."

Rowan grins lazily at him. "You're the ones putting yourselves in danger."

"Why are you doing this? What do you want with him?"

Rowan shrugs. "I told you, I'm the protector of the forest. You killed my sibling, so I will kill yours."

"You're pissed about _that_? That monster deer?"

"Nature demands balance. A life for a life." He smiles down at Dean, eyes glowing gold. "I took my payment from you already."

The memory hits Dean like a slap. A frantic whirlwind as Dean tugged Rowan blindly through the motel room door, begging him to keep the uniform on. He remembers the way his skin had glowed everywhere they touched.

"Also," says Rowan. "I don't like you."

"That's not what you said last night," Dean mutters, semi-horrified and semi-turned on at the recollection.

Rowan turns his dispassionate gaze on Sam. "And Sam is the one who decapitated my sibling. We are doing harm to no one, and he took the life, so it is only right that he pay with his own. But don't worry, he's much more nutritious to us alive." He gestures to the vines which seem to shiver excitedly where they have re-coiled themselves around Sam in the space of a minute.

"So you're going to drain him until he's an empty husk and then move on to the next poor schmuck? Like you've been doing to the townies?"

"They killed countless life to make their mansions. They owe more than they can repay. But don't worry, they died peacefully, without pain." He nudges Sam with his boot. "He's happy in there, in his own little dream world. Pheromones, oxytocin, serotonin, all of that provides good fertilizer."

"So you're a djinn? I've tangled with a couple of you bastards before." 

Rowan smiles, eyes flashing green. "Distant cousin."

And that's bad news for Sam. Dean has the silver knife on him but he's fresh out of lamb's blood.

"Please, let him go."

"Sam is living his best life, Dean. If on fast forward. Why don't you leave him be? He's happy."

"Doesn't matter. Wake him up."

"He doesn't even know he's sleeping. I can see into his mind, and he's happy. He thinks he's living a full life, well into old age. And the best part is he'll never suffer again. Tell me, Dean, when have you ever gotten an offer so good?"

"It's the principal of the thing," Dean protests, although a little less certainly. He knows for sure Sam would kill him if he left him frozen in the woods, even if it's the truth and he really is happy about it. "What will it take for you to let him go? I'll...I'll do anything."

"You've had your chance," Rowan says. "You didn't have to kill one of nature's beautiful creations. You came into my home and brutally murdered my kin."

"Please, I've learned my lesson."

"Have you?"

"Yes. And you know what? I vow to never kill another animal in the forest again. Just let him go. You'll be saving more of your family in the long run."

Rowan looked interested in this offer so Dean continues improvising.

"Also hey. You said it yourself, Sam is happy in there. Right? So in a way, letting him go back to his shitty life is punishing him more." He tries to look persuasive, while shivering in the dying light from the window.

Rowan squints at Dean as if trying to read his true intentions. "So you will leave us be. And this will at the same time punish Sam by taking away his happily ever after."

"Yes! Exactly."

"Hm. I do like the poetry of that."

"Yes, poetry, exactly." Dean sticks out a hand. "Deal?"

"Deal." Rowan quirks a smile and Dean feels a cold relief in his gut that might be half foreboding. Rowan doesn't take his hand, just waves a hand at Sam. "So be it."

The vines slither off of Sam's body immediately, and Rowan makes to the door. Dean scrambles over to Sam's prone form.

"You'll leave us alone then?" he calls after him.

"Provided you hold up your end of the bargain," Rowan says. Then he is gone in a clattering of hooves, leaving Dean alone in the deafening silence of the cabin.

Dean lets out a long, shaky breath, falling to his knees beside Sam. He's hardly able to believe he's survived yet another magical creature by talking out of his ass. They're not out of the woods yet, so to speak. They're still far away from warmth, water, and real shelter, hypothermia certainly imminent.

"Ngh."

Sam's eyes have started rolling beneath their lids, like he's struggling from a nightmare. 

"Sam. Sammy." 

Dean brushes leaves off of him revealing that Sam's skin is clammy but warm enough, and when Dean cuts the gag from his mouth, Sam wakes coughing.

"Easy," says Dean, and helps him sit.

There is a lot of blood, but it's only surface level, a shallow scratch on Sam's cheekbone, Dean finds when he gently turns Sam's face, and tiny dribbles of blood along his arms where each thorn was draining his life force. Sam seems otherwise whole and alive. 

"Jesus," Dean says again, running his thumbs around the raw marks at Sam's wrists, careful not to press too hard but soothing where he can. "You're ok."

Sam leans into the touch and then says, "Dean," on a breath, and takes Dean's mouth in a kiss. 

Dean, quite understandably, kisses back. A reflex. The hunger that surges up within him threatens to devour him whole and it takes everything in himself to press Sam away.

"I think you have a concussion," he says, Sam's soft mouth still an inch from his own, close enough to drive him crazy. "Because what the hell are you doing?"

"Wha—" Sam's face drains of color. He falls backward on his hands. "Oh my god I am so— Dean—"

"That djinn dude conked you out pretty good, didn't he? You're totally out of it." Dean makes his laugh come out light, unworried. It's a struggle.

"Djinn?" Realization seems to dawn over Sam. "Yeah, that's totally it. I didn't realize what I was doing."

He rubs at his mouth. A sick feeling has filled Dean's chest, replacing the heat that had kindled into flame at the feel of Sam's mouth on his own.

"No worries." He stands, brushing his knees off comically and then extends a hand to help Sam up. "We should get out of here before it's completely night. Freezing my ass off."

Sam shivers at this like he's just noticed. He gets up on his own, ignoring Dean's hand. He seems stable enough on his feet.

Dean bends to retrieve his gun, wincing as sharp pain travels up his arm.

"What happened?" says Sam.

"Just a minor sprain."

It's a good thing Sam has boots still, and a coat. Frostbite would be an embarrassing way to go. 

"Get a move on, we've got a long way to go."

"Time is it?" Sam asks as they head out, traveling east through the snow. Just one foot in front of the other. Dean feels clear-headed, like he'd just woken from some sort of spell. He probably has.

"Almost sundown."

"Sorry, stupid question."

Dean is already shivering, his thin jacket doing little against the frozen air. He's starting to think they should have stayed in the cabin, but when he looks back all he sees is a couple tree stumps in the moonlight.

+

Dean is dead on his feet, Sam not much better given the amount he's been knocking against Dean as they trudge through the woods. It's slow going. Dean feels himself becoming more and more mentally sluggish, no good to anyone, when a roar comes from the darkness to their right. Sam grabs Dean's arm, the good one that isn't throbbing horribly.

Dean's flashlight seems weak and he waves it wildly to try to catch the reflection of eyes. But outside the penumbra of dim light, the world just drops away into dark pines. He and Sam's breath fogs the air weakly before them as they stand stock still trying to make out the shape of anything.

There have been a lot of moments in Dean's life where the odds have not seemed great, and this is certainly one of them.

"One of those things." Sam whispers it close to Dean's ear. 

"Let's just back away slowly," Dean says, remembering his promise.

A second roar comes, and Sam takes off sprinting out of the light, gun in one hand.

"Wait!" Dean runs slowly after him, sinking up to his ankles in the snow, not sure that he'll make it at this rate.

At the last second he dives, going all in, and just manages to knock Sam's gun aside. It goes off with a bang, clearly wide of any potential target and flying out of his hand into the snow somewhere. The sound alerts the creature, which crashes off through the underbrush. He lies against Sam's chest, gasping for air and eyes smarting from pain, as the sound of the beast grows further and further away, then is gone.

Sam shoves him off. 

"Are you crazy?"

"I was just trying to, I don't know, save us from imminent death?"

"What the hell are you talking about? That thing could come back here any second."

"I made a promise!"

"To who?"

"The ranger!"

"Wow," Sam says, struggling to stand. "Talk about letting personal feelings clouding your judgement."

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

Once Dean's gotten to his feet, Sam shoves him right back into the snowbank. "Wow, real mature," Dean says and Sam genuinely seems surprised when Dean tackles him into the next one.

"Get of me."

"Sam. Look at me. Ranger whatshisface is an all-powerful djinn who was going to suck the life out of you then leave your body to decompose. I only got you back by promising never to kill another cuddly forest creature ever again!"

"Oh."

"Yeah, oh." He gets to his knees, then helps Sam up. "A thanks would be nice."

"Thanks," says Sam after they've resumed walking. Dean glances over and although he can't really see Sam well he imagines Sam looks apologetic.

"Freaking hate djinn," says Dean. He gives Sam the rundown, as they walk, leaving out the part where his ass is sore and also the part about the glitter. "What did you see, anyway? When you were all high on weed? Get it? The plants?"

"Yeah, funny." His voice sounds a little wistful. "It was awesome."

"Well don't hold out on me. Was it twins? I bet it was twins."

"You're an asshole," Sam tells him with conviction. He shoves Dean halfheartedly. "Come on."

They continue their death march. But as if the forest has decided to relinquish them in thanks for sparing the monster they just let continue rampaging around to kill god knows how many civilians, they suddenly find a trail, and quickly after that they reach the forest's edge.

Dean takes off running, clutching his arm to his chest. When he gets to the car he drapes himself over its frosty hood. "Am I am happy to see you or what?" Dean moans, so overcome with gratitude for the impala that he could kiss her hubcaps.

Sam puts out a hand expectantly. "Keys. You're not driving with that arm."

"You were just held prisoner by Bambi, you're in no shape to drive." Now that they've stopped walking and are back to reality Dean's teeth have begun chattering so hard he can barely say it.

Sam jerks his chin to the passenger side. "Come on, other side." 

"Dude, no."

"Dude, yes." Sam takes the keys by force. His hand digging in Dean's pocket shouldn't be so sensual but it is what it is.

"What the hell, Sam?" Dean mutters, making a show of squirming away but not trying too hard. He'll never let on how much he likes it when Sam gets all grabby.

Sam unlocks his door for him and with a sigh Dean levers himself gingerly into the passenger seat, wincing when he can't avoid jolting his shoulder. 

Inside the car is not much warmer than outside, and Dean doesn't have much hope for warming up any time soon. The dash is fogging up and Dean wipes it with his jacket sleeve and waits as Sam gets in the car and slams the door. 

"You sure you're ok to drive? What about the concussion?"

"Not a concussion," Sam says.

"Well, you should know I guess. But then how do you explain the whole…" he gestures with a few flaps of his hand, hoping it adequately expresses the idea of surprise incestuous kiss. "You know," Dean finishes lamely.

"Can we just go back to the motel?" Sam says. He turns on the engine. The car peels out before Dean can even get it together. 

Dean belatedly puts on his seatbelt, wincing at the pull on his arm. "Hey! Be careful with my wheels!"

The purr of the engine is like white noise, and the only sound for a while is the slick of the wheels and nighttime talk radio playing low and staticy. 

Dean is suddenly so bone tired. He sulks all the way to the motel but secretly relishes being able to shut his eyes against the cold air from the frozen heater that is trying its best but not making the cut, just putting everything away until he's been able to take a hot shower and defrost. 

Sam somehow gets them back into town. When Dean next opens his eyes the motel has appeared like an oasis of neons in a dark void.

"Just when the heater's starting to work," Sam says quietly. "I can feel my feet again."

Dean grunts in reply.

Sam opens Dean's door for him again, and Dean trails after him to the room door. Sam reaches for Dean's jeans again, but he's just patting Dean down for the keycard which he lifts easily.

"I'll just—" Sam says, then ducks away to insert the keycard in the door.

Dean watches Sam slide the keycard in again and again until the light flashes green instead of red. 

"My hero," says Dean.

"Didn't you say chicks dig heroes?"

"Everyone digs heroes."

Dean has swayed back against the door jam, looking up at Sam through his lashes like he knows works sometimes. Maybe one time out of five. Sam looks surprised — good surprised — as he looks down at him. He hesitates, eyes flicking to Dean's mouth for the barest of seconds, before saying, "Can't argue with you there." He turns away, leaving Dean staring. Because… _what_?

Dean must actually be delirious, exposure to elements and the headache of adrenaline catching up to him, because that look from Sam...he allows himself to hope for something for once.

"So, uh," he rubs at the back of his neck, following Sam close behind. "I'd be happy to thank you for heroically opening the door, if you want."

Sam gives him an unreadable look that Dean likes, he likes it a whole lot. But it vanishes the second Sam flicks on the room lights.

He purses his lips in a serious bitch face as he surveys the mess. Dean is shocked himself, seeing the room like new. He's glad he put the "Do Not Disturb" sign on the motel door because they would have been thrown out and it would have definitely ruined his credit.

"Wow," Sam says, stepping in over the broken chair.

"I can explain—" says Dean, and when Sam looks to him to actually do the explaining he can feel himself blushing. "Well, I can only remember parts of it, but it was Rowan. He's a pretty physical guy, and—"

Sam steps away from him, a cold tension all that's left. "I need a shower," he says and heads to the bathroom.

"But—" Dean says, digging his grave further but unable to stop himself from drumming up an old argument. "First shower goes to the guy who saved you, right?"

"One could argue that doing something incredibly stupid pushes you back to second shower status? Like, I don't know, fucking the suspect?"

"Oh come on. I thought the case was shut. And then he whammied me. Probably. Anyway, you gotta give me some credit!"

Sam mutters something like, "Keep it in your pants for once Dean," and stalks across the room, careful not to step on broken glass.

"How was I to know— It's not my fault—"

Sam shuts the door in his face.

"I was cursed!" Dean calls but the pound of the shower cuts off all noise. "Or like, bewitched or something!"

Only belatedly he remembers the lube spilled across the counter and sinks to the edge of one of the beds, the one in better shape that he can't remember despoiling. He rubs a hand over his face, headache finally ebbing enough to think clearly giving way to pangs of regret.

"Jesus," he says, experiencing a sense memory once again, of what happened here. Hazy memories. Possibly calling out Sam's name while the ranger did something crazy with his tongue. His ears are left burning.

As Sam showers, he races around cleaning up as best he can. The broken desk lamp, the dented trash can, and the bits of chair all go into the closet, while he shakes all the sheets out to make sure there's nothing sharp. Once he's satisfied that the beds are safe, the water has turned off and Sam wordlessly comes out in a small motel towel. Dean hurries into the bathroom himself.

He hates taking second shower. The small, often windowless motel bathrooms are always pre-fogged, with water all over the floor.

He painstakingly takes off his clothes, and showers long enough to thaw out and get all the bits of dirt and twigs off his skin. Washing his hair with one hand is exceedingly annoying. When he's out, he heads straight to his bag in the corner and takes a bunch of pain pills and chases with whisky that's magically unbroken on the side table. Sam turns away ostensibly to give Dean some privacy. Dean stands and tugs on some boxer briefs and runs the towel over his head a few times, watching the tense set of Sam's shoulders under his t-shirt.

"Ok look," Dean tries again, because he really wants to get back to Sam being happy to see him rather than pissed and not talking to him. "I was obviously under that dude's spell or something. Cut me some slack!"

Sam turns. "Dean," he says patiently. "It's not that you slept with a _suspect_ in the middle of a _case_. You've done that plenty of times."

"Whatever. You saw me leave with him, what did you think was going on?"

"You said you were showing him something in the car! And then you disappeared! I _waited_ for you. I was sure you were _dead_!"

The silence is horrible. Deans shouldn't feel as guilty as he does. 

"But what about you? You left with him too. The bartender told me."

"He told me you were in trouble! Of course I went with him!"

"Oh."

"Then he jumped me." The anger seems to go out of Sam. "Look, it's not that you're an oblivious asshole, or that you promised me a night at the bar just you and me only to ditch me as soon as you saw something better." Sam's voice is almost dispassionate, disappointed in Dean. "It's that even when you're drunk enough that you'll sleep with a guy, you still go off with him, not me."

Dean blinks. "What?"

Sam glances at his mouth, just a flicker of his eyes, and Dean bites his lip, remembering in sudden surround sound that hungry kiss and the way Sam had melted against him, the relief that had filled Dean's chest.

"Anyway." Sam turns back to his bag.

Dean's mind is going a million miles an hour. And it's his move. "So," he says. "You going to help a guy out or what?"

Sam whirls around, eyes skittishly traveling down Dean's body.

"With my shoulder," says Dean. "It really fucking hurts."

"Oh, right." Sam's expression softens a bit. "Sorry."

He comes immediately to help and steps up behind him. "Bend over and brace yourself," he says.

This has got to simultaneously be the best and worst night of Dean's life.

"Count of three," Sam says, breath hot on his ear. Dean shivers at the contact. "One…" Dean has to bite back a groan as Sam lines up behind him. Sam's big hands take hold of Dean's shoulder. "Two…" Sam noses closer as if Dean is having trouble hearing him in the silent room. "Two and a ha…"

"Sam get on with it— Fuck!" his shout can probably be heard down the whole motel. "Jesus Christ Sammy you assho—" That thought goes unfinished when Sam spins him around by the now-located shoulder and kisses him.

Shock turns to shocky amazement. That kiss before was nothing compared to this, Sam dragging Dean up against him so that Dean is pressing him to the wall, his hand smoothing the back of Dean's neck. The sharp pain in Dean's shoulder recedes to a dull throb at the back of his conscious mind, mirrored by the more insistent one in his briefs as Sam coerces Dean's mouth open.

It takes five long seconds for Dean to get with the program, and then he kisses Sam back fiercely, trying to say what he's never been able to. He tugs at the bottom of Sam's shirt until Sam takes his hands off Dean long enough to jerk the shirt over his head, arms bulging mouthwateringly as he balls the shirt and tosses it into a corner and shoves Dean back to fall onto the bed. Dean quickly scoots backward on his elbows and tugs Sam up over him with urgent hands.

There is little talking. This is serious and Dean's worried he'll break whatever dream he's living.

Sam has always been a crazy bastard. He is full of ideas that are bad ones, bad for himself and bad for Dean, bad for both of them. Dean doesn't think it's going to fit. Sam proves him wrong.

"Well," says Dean afterward. "How about next time we don't break the bed."

"That's the most fucked up thing you've ever said to me," Sam says. "Also I think it might have been already broken."

Dean laughs harder than the situation warrants that he has to wipe tears from the edge of his eyes and when he looks over there is a bit of concern on Sam's face. Dean has never felt more relieved in his whole life.

Then Sam flicks Dean in the chest, smirking like something has just occurred to him. Dean smacks his hand away and turns on his side to look at him, hand pillowed under his head.

"You freaking out?"

"No it's just—I win. The competition."

"Oh, you mean the one we're not having? It's a tie," Sam says.

"Um, how do you figure that?"

Sam shrugs. "We're three-three now. I told you it was in the bag."

"Um, no," Dean draws it out to make sure Sam knows he is serious. "By that logic it's four to three."

"I thought it was whoever did the doing." Sam's tone is apologetic when he says it, like he's trying to care that Dean won't get his sloppy joe.

Dean scoffs. Sam has subsided into the soft pillows, hands behind his head, looking pleased with himself. Dean wants to rub his face all over Sam's bulging arms, but consoles himself with just tapping at Sam's hip with the back of his hand under the guise of getting his attention, even though they're alone as can be, Dean finally having captured all of Sam's attention like he's always wanted.

"That's bullshit, but also even then it would be four to three." Dean gestures to himself. "Don't forget our favorite ranger!"

He's going for an inside joke kind of vibe, but feels a little bad when Sam's face goes stormy at the reminder. He opens his mouth to console Sam for being a proven loser, but words evaporate when Sam's hand falls heavy on his hip, fingers smoothing back like Dean won't notice Sam is touching his ass if Sam goes slow.

"Sam."

"Yeah."

"What did you see? The djinn I mean?"

This is met with silence. A blush spreads up Sam's neck and Dean grins. This has got to be good.

"Sam?"

Sam takes his hand off Dean, the mood ruined, but for good reason. Dean loves when Sam is embarrassed. He is going to make fun of him forever for this, he can feel it.

"You're not serious." Dean says.

"Forget it," Sam says. He rolls away, off the bed, and grabs a new pair of boxers out of the duffel.

"Wait, what?" Dean is laughing, which is maybe a little bit insensitive on his part. If Sam were a girl or someone otherwise not related to him he'd go easier, but Sam is his to make fun of until the end of his days.

"So, was it as good as that other one?" Dean asks, and when Sam turns a questioning look on him, says, "That's that other life you were living, wasn't it? You and me, uh, together." It feels daring to say, even considering where they were and what they had just done.

"Yeah," Sam says semi-defensively. "Don't make fun of me. It was my best dream, ok?"

"Not making fun of you." Dean clears his throat. "It's mine too."

"Yeah?"

"Of course. You think I'd be here if it wasn't?"

  
  


+

  
  


The next morning, on the way out of town, they nearly hit a deer. 

"Sweet Jesus." Dean swerves at the last minute, and manages to pull to a skidding stop in the soft shoulder, only narrowly avoiding driving them headfirst into one of the million trees. 

There, he takes a deep breath, smelling the pines, slowing his hammering heart. Death by mundane traffic accident would be an embarrassing way to go, considering.

"We're ok," Sam says, briefly patting Dean's chest. Then, "Hold up a second."

"What?"

"Just—" Sam grabs the door handle. "There's something I need to do." There is a waft of frigid air as Sam gets out, cutting off abruptly when he slams the door closed behind him.

"Whatever man." Dean does what he's told anyway, watching as Sam climbs the snow embankment and starts walking toward the woods.

Dean dips his head so he can keep Sam in his sights. Sam keeps walking. "Oh come on, don't make me follow you…" But for all he knows, Sam is still possessed by the djinn and heading back toward the cabin. He buttons his jacket and pulls on his thin gloves. "Ok, we're doing this. Just wanna get out of this damn town."

He follows. When he catches up to Sam, it's to find Sam stopped by the forest's edge, hand pressed against a tree trunk.

Dean steps up next to him. "Dude, you know I just put on my last clean socks. Now my feet are gonna be all soggy."

"I have an extra pair," says Sam, distractedly. Given this chance to look, Dean lets his eyes trail over Sam, strong shoulders under his flannel, thick arms, blunt nails, stubble that Dean can now run his lips over.

"What are we—"

"Sh!"

Then Dean sees it. The deer he almost hit, probably. It's peering from around a bush, stock still. The longer they stand there the longer the air seems to vibrate. No false moves. The sound of traffic seems to fade into the background.

Apparently deciding they aren't threatening, the deer begins picking its way toward them, nose scenting the air until it comes within arm's distance. Sam raises his hand and softly pats its nose.

"Thank you," he says. "For everything."

"I don't think it understands you," says Dean unhelpfully but nods to the deer, just in case.

The deer licks Sam's hand, then in a blink it's gone. Dean catches a flash of the back of the deer, bounding off through the snow to disappear into the thicket like it was never there.

Dean puts a hand on Sam's back. "Ok is that enough nature for you for one weekend?"

"Yeah I'd say so. Come on." 

Sam shoves him back in the direction of the car. Normally Dean would shove back but the move now seems like just an excuse for Sam to touch him so he accepts the shove gratefully, like a hungry man who has gotten a bite of a sloppy joe and just wants more. He recalls just exactly how Sam had put him where he wanted him just hours before and has to will himself to be an adult not a teenage boy and walk manfully to the car instead of begging Sam to have his way with him here in the dirty, highway adjacent snowbank.

Dean wasn't familiar with post-hookup etiquette, but Sam didn't seem freaked out now. They just hadn't talked about it yet, which was starting to worry him because Sam _always_ wanted to talk about things. 

But Sam had been up and showered before Dean had even cracked his eyes that morning, and when Dean woke up feeling sated and satisfied in ways he didn't previously know was possible, it was to Sam holding out a paper cup of gas station coffee, telling him he had already filled up the car and was ready to hit the road before the motel found out they'd trashed the place.

Dean got dressed, surreptitiously watching for any imminent freakout but all Sam did was leave a hefty cash tip and a note of apology for the maid. So yeah, they hadn't talked about it.

When they get back to the car, Sam rummages through his bag in the back seat and pulls out a pair of wooly socks, the ones Sam always gets pissed that Dean tries to steal. It's like the best present, Dean being presented with these socks.

"Wow," says Dean, eyes pricking stupidly. "Thanks, Sam."

Sam frowns at him. "It's just, you said you didn't have any more clean ones…?" His expression grows more uncertain the longer Dean fades into fuzzy feelings. "Dean?"

He closes the door of the car and Dean leans back against it, looking up at Sam. "You're awesome."

Sam smiles, small and strangely bashful, before replying, "Well, thanks. You're awesome too." Dean is taken aback. The way Sam is biting his lip, looking down at him adoringly like they're in a Christmas romcom or some shit—well, it's enough to make a lesser man swoon.

He shouldn't be so surprised when Sam presses him softly against the side of the impala, stepping into the V of Dean's legs, hands going to Dean's hips.

"Hey," Sam says, his hair brushing Dean's forehead, Dean clutching the softs socks between their chests.

"Hey."

Sam's eyes go soft and then Dean tugs Sam down for another kiss.

A car horn blares, causing both of them to jump. 

"Ok, let's go," says Dean. "I'm done with nature."

"So I take it you don't wanna do it like they do on the Discovery Channel?" asks Sam, sandpaper against Dean's cheek.

"Oh my god," Dean says, absolutely mortified as Sam chuckles against his ear.

A crow caws from somewhere over yonder and it's enough to break the morning's spell. As Dean rounds the car, his feet squish damply, but he has socks to change into. His hands are frigid, but he has a rattling heater to warm them up. He doesn't know where he's going next, but he has Sam next to him to figure it out.

Dean throws the forest one more look as they slam their car doors. "Won't be sad to put this forest in the rearview."

"I don't know," said Sam. "It's kind of nice."

Dean imagines for a moment he can hear a laugh on the wind, and he rolls his windows up against the chill in the air. It feels like magic.


End file.
